Chicken Fried Vogue

For 15 years and most of her adult life, Bubblez lived in the suburbs of a major metropolitan city. She enjoyed taking her children to museums, parks, and dates at Starbucks. Then Bubblez moved to the country and her En Vogue attitude got chicken fried. Her yard is a park where the neighbor's rooster won't stop crowing, Starbucks is almost an hour away, and her large collection of fancy shoes is worthless. But, living in the acres of green has presented more opportunities for living "green" as Bubblez travels the path toward self-sufficiency (and bitches ((and prays)) along the way).

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Farts And Feral Cats

A couple of weeks ago, I was driving across the back end of the Wal-Mart parking lot, and there where there are always a lot of empty spaces (between January 5 and November 15, excepting the occasional RV convoy sometime mid-summer), I noticed a semi truck that looked like it had just been plunked down the way toddlers do with Matchbox cars. Now, I am forever seeing odd or funny things that other people completely overlook. The side of the truck was labeled with the company name, Ferrellgas. It cracked me up. In fact, I just Googled the name to make sure I had it spelled correctly, and it made me laugh, again.

So, here I am, in the middle of the parking lot, with at least one person in my vehicle who was old enough to get the joke, bent over the steering wheel laughing, when I look around, and nobody, I mean nobody can see what's so hilarious. Right? Even you might be sitting there reading this going, huh? That's what I'm saying.

Let me escort you through the kooky Seussland that is my brain. Keep your hands inside the car.

Did you know that there is a Feral Cat Coalition? I didn't either until just now, and although I probably shouldn't have, I giggled at that, too. It's only because of other ways in which I've heard the word, coalition or coalescing. Only in California..

Anyway, Ferrellgas = feral gas. Are you tracking me yet? (<---pun)
Keep the notion of gas (we're talking farts, people) in your mind while reading the following definition of the word, feral.

1: of, relating to, or suggestive of a wild beast
2: having escaped from domestication and become wild 

Are you giggling yet? If not, just go away now because you are obviously too mature to be hanging out with me. 

A few days later, I was, ironically, parked outside of a local gas station.
I parked near the building intending to run inside for a fountain pop. Another car pulls up and parks next to me, and this old, hunched over, Wimpy looking, dude (I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today) gets out and walks along the sidewalk in front of my windshield toward the entrance. I watch him for a moment. He was hobbling by somewhat slowly, and I wanted to give him time to get ahead of me so that I wouldn't have to rudely push past him on the sidewalk.

I climbed out of my car, hopped up onto the curb, and began strutting my way toward the front door, and then.. it hit me, feral gas.

Old Mr. Wimpy had left an invisible cloud floating over the sidewalk. It was rank. I know I made a face, but otherwise, I hope I kept my cool out there. You never know when someone is watching you, and if I had doubled over or held my nose and run, or, since it's me we're talking about, started hacking and stuttering profanities while dancing around in a circle with my arms flailing about like I was swatting a swarm of angry bees, no one who did happen to be watching would have had the first clue as to what my problem was, and given that this whole scene went down in Country Song, chances are that the person who saw it all would have approached me later at some inopportune time to tell me that they thought I was having a seizure or something and almost called 911. Then, everyone within earshot would be teasing me for the next six months, "Hey, Bubblez, how's that feral gas? Har har har" Hmm. Look who's not laughing now. 


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